


Halloween 3 Pack 2018

by chels0792



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Costume, Halloween, Holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chels0792/pseuds/chels0792
Summary: A sweet triplet for Halloween lovers. Three unrelated stories which do not occur in the Le Toucher Doux universe. Enjoy!





	1. Don't Enter, Dye Inside

The night was clear and cool. Streetlamps glowed yellow above the road, reflected brass storefronts, caught the moving spokes of the bicycle across the street. Orange banners pinioned the street from cars; yellow warning signs danced on the chill breezes of October in New York. 

The sidewalk was wet with rain, and with every step Alfred cast a spray of droplets from the tips of his boots. He stepped around a grinning jack o lantern at a storefront, could smell the richness of coffee from the old deli down the road. He could hear the crowds gathered for the parade around the block, invigorated by sugar and caffeine and the excitement of the holiday, and tossed his limp hair at his reflection in a flash of gray, tugged his scarf from his face to exhale a cloud of white. He was warm, at least. The rain couldn’t chill him through leather gloves.

Familiar voices met him as he rounded the block, the smells of black coffee and cigarettes. Alfred spread his arms, bottle in hand. “You guys actually look pretty good. Not as good as me, but good.”

“About time you got here.” Beneath the dripping awning, sleek in a black suit and gel, Arthur lowered his cigarette to stare at him around Matthew’s shoulder. His eyes landed on the prop in Alfred’s hand, and he rolled them. “I should have known better than to think you had any tact.”

Alfred ignored him, tossed the vodka from one hand to the other as he approached. “You guys would not believe the week I had. You know that new movie, the one with the clown?”

Alfred stopped beside his brother, and Arthur exhaled a burst of smoke and a chuckle. “Clowns too? You’re afraid of everything, aren’t you?”

“He shapeshifts, Artie. He’s hard to punch.” Alfred gave Matthew a friendly shove in a wordless greeting. “I took the doors off my closet, right, just in case, but then I got scared he’d grab me and drag me under the bed.”

“I can’t believe it.” Matthew gave him a grinning once-over, lean and red, arms crossed. The swords crossed behind his head cast a shadow in the brief burst from a passing flashlight. “Which one of your kids made you a bet?”

“I didn’t make a bet, I made a dare.” Alfred waved him off. “Do you know how dusty it is under there? Ruin my pajamas. That’s silk, Mattie, it’s expensive.” 

“You’ve got the aesthetic, if not the character.” Several car horns honked around the corner, and Arthur brushed his free hand over the hair Alfred had smoothed forward into his eyes. “I thought you wanted to be Superman again.”

“I thought Mattie was going to be Captain Canuck,” Alfred said, “we’re all disappointed. Long story short, I still haven’t slept, it’s been a week and a half, and I’m going to need at least four shots of espresso if I’m going to get through this parade, so somebody bring it to me.”

“The eyes are cool.” Matthew fluffed his scarf, stepped aside so Francis could join their circle. “You’re missing the coat, though.”

“Question of the day.” Alfred stood on the tips of his boots to see over Francis’ head, used his brother's shoulder to keep his balance. “Where the hell is Russia?”

Francis sent his hair fluttering with a golden hand fan and a dramatic sigh. “Angleterre, I have so tried to love your wild children. What is this?”

“I didn’t condone this.” Arthur spoke around the cigarette in his teeth, reached out to smooth wayward fabric to the bell of Francis’ dress with deliberate hands. “He’s an adult. An arse of an adult.”

“He better show.” Alfred tugged at the weapons harness strapped across his chest, the thigh holster that itched. “He said he’d be here. I hope the cameras didn’t scare him off.”

Francis pouted, turned so Arthur could fix his skirt. “His beautiful golden hair, _mon cher_.”

“Your dye looks cheap.”

They turned.

Yao tapped a toe, crossed his legs from the hood of someone’s car. “Did you use color from a box? Your hair will fall out.”

Arthur took a drag. “Why do you look like a doily?”

“You dig that dress out of the year six-fifty?” Alfred added, and Arthur barked a laugh. “You know damn well I had this done.” 

“By a blind man?”

Alfred opened his mouth to retort—and stopped. “Is that my jacket?”

Even in the menagerie of multicolored lights, Alfred could see that Ivan had gelled his hair, dyed it a cheerful yellow. How, Alfred wondered, could a pair of jeans and a furred collar make him look so much bigger?

He reached into a pocket for his glasses, folded them in his palm, and called out in Russian: “ _You think this is a joke.”_

Ivan straightened from his sister’s enthusiastic attention—like a titan, Alfred thought, head and shoulders above the rest of the nationheads gathered for their part in the parade—and Alfred stopped behind him to cross his arms and scowl. “ _You look like a fool.”_

Ukraine pressed both hands to her face. Alfred thought she muffled a giggle. 

Alfred jerked his head at Ivan’s outfit, tried hard to make Ivan’s own distorted expression of distaste around the grin. “ _Decadent. I am not surprised.”_

“Nice of you to show up, Red Dead.” Ivan said in a surprising approximation of a Bostonian accent. “I was kind of hoping you’d die in your sleep, but hey, there’s always tonight, right?”

Ivan had even worn a pair of metal dog tags that glinted in the colorful lights when he moved. Alfred fought down the growing need to laugh. “ _If you are not pleased with the devil’s work, Jones, you are welcome to try for yourself.”_ Just for fun, he opened his palm to reveal his wire glasses, twirled them to catch the streetlights. “ _I brought you a gift, for the holiday.”_

“Aren’t you just a sweetheart.” Ivan’s nostrils flared—Alfred lost the battle with his humor, snorted—and reached for his overcoat. “Lucky for me, I have a little ace of my own.”

The crowd watched, amused, as they closed the distance between them with open hands to shake. 

“Here.” Alfred opened the wire frame of his glasses, stepped close, set them lightly on Ivan’s nose. “Now you’re Clark Kent.”

Ivan spread his coat like a pair of pale wings, open for Alfred to close over himself. Alfred turned his back to slip his arms into the sleeves, caught a glimpse of Matthew’s approval, Francis’ interest.

He glanced at his boots, obscured by pale folds. “It’s gonna drag.” He stepped back, hands in the air. “Wait. Watch this, watch.”

He lowered his arms, and the cuffs of Ivan’s coat flopped forward over his fingertips.

Laughter from the crowd, a whoop. He could almost hear Arthur roll his eyes; but he'd be smiling.  Alfred flapped his arms like a bird to free them, reached for the bottle he’d carried to the beginning of the parade route. “Your payment, sir.”

Ivan unscrewed the lid. He offered the first sip to Alfred. “This is fun.”

Alfred toasted him, took a shot. “Couldn’t do it without you, Jones.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Trick and Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's Halloween without a few tricks?

Alfred lowered his beer to sigh, exhale misted in the chill of the evening. “I didn’t mean to chicken out.”

Matthew crossed his legs, reclined against the bar’s wooden doorjamb, and took another drink. A group of laughing students passed behind him, umbrellas and jackets dripping with rainwater. “Is it too much trouble to just ask him? Why don’t you just invite him over?”

Alfred shrugged, followed a droplet of water on the metal table with a finger. Light from the window cast shadows over the darkened porch. “I don’t know if he’s into it, man.”

Matthew made a wry expression.

Oliver shouted something from inside the bar, released a long peal of laughter.  

Matthew leaned backward to peek below the open doorframe. “Might be time to move on.”

There was a crash from the other side of the wall.

They shared a look.

Alfred stood to dig in a pocket for his wallet, nodded to a gaggle of students dressed in capes and horns and pumpkin masks on the sidewalk. “Here. Just give them this and get him out of there.”

Matthew took the credit card with thanks—and paused, eyes across rainy street. “I thought you said he left.”

Alfred turned, scanned the crowd—and made a sound of surprise. “What is he doing?”

Ivan wandered alone down the sidewalk, past open doors and partygoers, around jack o lanterns and signs decorated in orange chalk beneath lighted awnings.

Alfred pointed at the bar. “You get him. Hey! Braginski!”

Australia shouted something in a thick accent and tripped over New Zealand and out of the bar. They landed heavily on Alfred, who slipped off of the rainy curb and into a dark puddle beside the sidewalk.

Ripples distorted neon sides and headlights. Alfred’s beer landed in the gutter with a _clink_ and rolled into darkness.

He made a sound of disappointment after the bottle. “We need an adult.”

Matthew hauled him to his feet with one arm and balanced New Zealand with the other. “Are we following?”

“Yeah, gimmie a minute.” Alfred jogged into the street, held up a palm to the cars that stopped to let him cross. “Vanya!”

Ivan stepped around a trash can which overflowed with plastic cups and glass IPAs, hands in the pockets of his slacks; he waited politely for a group of students to flocks together in the doorway of a bar.

Alfred leapt the curb and dodged drunkards to catch him.

“Hey.” He tapped the arm of his sweater, surprised to find that Ivan’s clothes were damp. “I’m talking to you, man. Where you going?”

Rain darkened his hair into a silver mask, obscured his expression. He shook his head, sent droplets to scatter over the shoulders of his sweater. “I only want to walk. No trouble.”

Alfred smacked his arm, delighted. “Awesome, dude, hang out with us! We’re bar-hopping.”

Ivan’s boot scuffed the sidewalk. “I don’t want trouble, Alik.”

There was a wolf-like howl from across the street.

Alfred lifted an arm above his head to gesture, whistled shrilly at the sky. “It’s just me and some of my brothers. We’re gonna hit some bars, have some drinks, eat greasy food. It’ll be fun.”

Ivan sloped his shoulders, glanced over Alfred's head where his brothers hurried to meet him. “I will return to my hotel, please.”

“I can’t let you walk around all by yourself in the rain, man, come on.” Australia skipped across the street to join Matthew, and Alfred gave Ivan the most charming smile he could muster. He shoved his hands into his pockets, tried to wet the inside of his mouth, tried to quiet his stomach. “If you don’t want to go crazy, you and I can go back to my place. We can watch a scary movie. Drink till we cry.”

Matthew shouted, “Ollie, no!” 

Alfred hit the sidewalk, hard. His jeans scraped cement; he spit out a mouthful of disgusting rainwater. They wrestled, cursing and laughing.

“Al, we found Mom and Papa.” Matthew locked Oliver in an overhanded grip to drag him, twisting, off of his brother. He gave him an apologetic look. “They’re really drunk. Mom says you have to take him back to his hotel.”

“I can’t babysit him, I’m babysitting Russia.” Alfred scrambled to his feet, brushed wet leaves from his thighs. “Call India.”

"I tried." Matthew steadied Oliver against the nearest wall. “He’s not picking up his phone.” 

“I’ll call Uncle Scotland, ask him nice. Russia’s gonna party with us.” He gestured at Ivan as he pulled his cell from a pocket, cast an eye at each of his brothers. “Everybody play nice or the drinks dry up, you feel me?”

Australia questioned Ivan intently on his preferred hangover cures, clinging to the metal arm of an awning, until Alfred ended the call to rescue him. 

“Uncle’s got it.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket, threw an arm around Ivan’s shoulders. “So, big guy. What’re you drinking?”

Ivan glanced downward, at his open jacket, his wet button-down, his blue jeans.

Alfred’s stomach fluttered. He opened his arm to gesture at himself. “Are you going to tell me you don’t want to go out on the town with the hottest bachelor in the U.S.?” 

Ivan’s lips quirked. He arched a brow. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s better than walking around in the rain, yeah?” Alfred leaned close, patted his shoulder. “Come hang with us. Drinks on me.”

Ivan lowered his shoulders, eyes on his. “Just an hour.”

“You heard him, boys.” Alfred gave Oliver a shove, maybe a little hard. “Lead the way!”

\--

The pub was noisy, filled with nationheads and aprons bursting with tips. Waitresses piled trays high with repeat orders in paper wraps and plastic baskets, and bartenders jogged up and down the bar in vain attempts to quench a nationhead’s infamous thirst.

Alfred rapped his knuckles on polished wood and reached over the bar to claim a bottle of Russian Standard from the shelves. He held up the label for the tender to see, gave him a nod.

The bartender hurried. “Bottle for you, Mister Jones?”

Alfred made a looping gesture with his open drink. Whiskey cast amber light on the bar. “Put the night on my card. Don’t tell anybody.”

Ivan snorted into his shot glass.

Alfred grinned at him, winked. “When you close it out, give everybody thirty percent, yeah? Everybody.”

The tender left with a broad smile, and Alfred slapped a palm down on the wood, stood to lift his glass toward the ceiling. “Hey! Everybody look at me! Cute guy at the bar!”

Gilbert shouted: “Where is he?”

Ivan turned to toast him with his empty glass.

Alfred gave them both the finger. “Round on me for everybody but Gilbert!”

The pub exploded with cheers. Someone threw a glass bottle at the wall. 

Alfred landed on his stool, filled Ivan’s glass. “Foucault is insanely immoral. Nobody believes human beings are born without any kind of a moral compass.”

Ivan took the shot. “Who, then?”

Alfred shrugged, reached out again with the bottle. “Chomsky.”

Ivan lifted his eyebrows. “Astounding.”

“On the subject of morality.” Alfred pointed at Gilbert, who stood to dance on the table behind them. “Not on politics.”

When Ivan returned to the front, Alfred refilled his highball glass with vodka.

Ivan gestured for the bottle. “Can you truly separate the two?”

“Sure I can.” Alfred watched him drink directly from the bottle. “Shades of gray.”

“You have refreshing perspectives.” Another long drink. “If not immature.”

“Same to you, bud. Nobody’ll debate with me.” Alfred leaned forward—

And tipped, braced a hand on Ivan’s thigh. “Sorry, sorry.”  

Ivan’s eyebrows met. He watched bronze fingers on the dark fabric of his slacks.

“This is nice, man.” Distracted, Alfred plucked a pearl of lint from the sleeve of Ivan’s sweater. “Nobody else wants to debate. You get me.”

Ivan felt a smile. He dipped his head to meet Alfred eye to eye and answered quietly, below the din of the pub and its familiar patrons. “I think maybe you’re drunk.”

Alfred grinned sloppily. “I didn’t expect such good company.”

A kinder man, a gentler or saner man, might have hailed the tender for a glass of water. Ivan reached blindly for the bottle and poured a double shot into Alfred’s empty glass. “Have you read _Manufacturing Consent?”_         

                --

Alfred, Ivan thought with distaste, could be mistaken for his mother’s son. Arthur lay prone on the table in the shadow of the back corner of the pub, snoring as all old men but Yao seemed to snore, slumped to the side on a dead arm.

Alfred muttered into the bar, glassed fogged by his heated breath, that he was through with drinking for the evening.

Ivan dared to lay a hand over the curve of his spine, felt ridged vertebrae and scorching heat through his coat.

Alfred shoved himself upward, ungainly, and took the chance with a pounding heart. “I hate to do this to you, but do you think you could help me outside?”

A kinder man, a gentler man, a man of god would have kicked Alfred from his stool and laughed. Ivan stood, helped Alfred to his feet. “Are you sick?”

“If I keep going I will be.” Alfred leaned heavily on his arm and waved a goodnight to the tender with a friendly reminder. “I’d ask someone else, but Mattie’s not here and I think Artie’s out over there.”

Outside, the air smelled like rain and leaves and exhaust, and the street was wet and chilled. Ivan’s arm around his waist was solid. He wrapped his fingers in the leather of Alfred’s belt.

Alfred stumbled in the doorway. “Shit, dude.”

Ivan motioned with his free arm. “You live just there, yes?”

“I’m not gonna make you walk me all the way back, man.” Alfred dropped the arm from Ivan’s shoulders, tried to stand. “You’ve been kind enough. You’re a gentleman.”

Ivan released him.

Alfred felt heat in his face, the anxiety in his stomach; he could see his brother’s wry expression.

He fell backward into the light pole behind him with an exclamation.

Ivan hurried to catch him.  

Alfred clung to the metal where he’d fallen and to the arm Ivan closed around his hip. His face was red—with drink, Ivan thought, only with drink—and his smile failed to reach the dimples in his cheeks.

He was astute to be nervous, Ivan thought. The careless, handsome thing. He thought of porcelain-doll lovers. “I would be rude to leave an ally in such a state.”

Alfred scrubbed a hand through his hair. His heart beat frantically. “How much did you give me, Braginski? Damn.”

Ivan lowered his tone, softened his voice. “Kindly let me walk a friend safely home.”

Alfred searched his face, his eyes. He wet his lips with the tip of a pink tongue—caught his eyes when they wandered. “It’s not like that. I don’t mean—I’m not trying to offend.”

“I am not offended.” Ivan laid his fingers—bravely—on the small of Alfred’s back. Traced a finger over the pleat in the back of Alfred’s shirt. “I feel responsible.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alfred said with a frown.

Ivan lowered his head to murmur in a voice Alfred was sure none of the passerby in heels could hear. “I can take care of you, too.”

Alfred gazed up at him with lips parted, searching.

“Yeah.” He heard himself. “Let’s do it.”

When Ivan lifted his arm over his shoulders, Alfred didn’t resist. They paced onto the sidewalk, and Ivan said, “This will not be the first time I have walked you home.”

Alfred let his head rest, for a moment, on Ivan’s wide shoulder. Then, as they turned the corner, he complained. “First time you took advantage of me to do it.”

Ivan’s smile was quick and sincere. He lifted his eyebrows. “I confess.”

Alfred stomach erupted with nerves. “Can’t say I’m too upset. Good conversation’s worth a little trouble.”

Traffic lights blinked above them. They paced across another crosswalk wrapped together at the waist. Alfred’s penthouse loomed above.

Ivan opened the door for him, and Alfred tripped in the doorway.

They laughed through the lobby to the lift, where Ivan reluctantly lowered his hands. “Worth a little pride, Mister Jones?”

Alfred kept a steadying arm on the back of Ivan’s belt. He didn’t let go. He cleared his throat. “No. but another drink might be worth something.”

A kinder man, Ivan was not. But he was a stronger man, and wiser. He released Alfred with reluctance. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve got all afternoon tomorrow to rest.” Alfred smoothed the fabric of his scarf under a palm. “Come on up, we’ll have a nightcap.”

Liquor was not the flavor Ivan wanted on his tongue. He planted his feet in what he thought was a godlike display of resolve and remorse and patted Alfred’s shoulder, warm through layers. “I regrettably decline.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, “that’s probably smart.”

He took Ivan by the arm, and the door closed behind them.

Alfred set his card against the security lock. “Nobody saw us leave.”

Ivan cast his eye over the firm grip on his arm. “The day is late. I will see you to your room.”

“My room.” Alfred met him, eyebrow raised. “Do you have any idea how much money you cost me tonight? I think I tossed twenty shots behind the bar.”

Alfred’s eyes were blue and bright. Focused.

Ivan raised his eyebrows.

Alfred tilted his head.

The lift stopped. Alfred pulled him out of the elevator by force.

Ivan watched Alfred use his key and passcode to lock down his security. Lock him in.

“You can take off your coat.” Alfred flashed perfect teeth, all charm, and dropped his jacket on the table. “Come on in. Day’s late, night’s young. You want another drink?”

Ivan followed him into the salon, toyed with his scarf. “Will I leave before morning, I wonder.”

Alfred filled two crystal glasses, standing as he poured. “No.”

He offered a glass. “We can continue our talk, if you like.”

Ivan let his coat fall heavily over the loveseat. 

He took the drink and sat, stilled his nervous fidgeting. He frowned into his fresh liquor. “Perhaps a more suitable partner, Mister Jones?”

Alfred braced his glass over his thighs. “Like who, Ivan?”

Ivan finished his drink to wash the taste of truth from his tongue. “You lied to me.”

“I exercised my rights to creative liberty.” Alfred leaned over the table. “You’re not giving me much resistance.”

Ivan leaned forward to meet him. He tilted his head to follow the swell of Alfred’s bronze throat, half-shadowed. God help him, he wanted to bite. “What if I know nothing of how to please you?”

Alfred shrugged, chugged his whiskey for courage. “Then we’re two of a pair. We’ll have fun figuring it out.”

Ivan gave himself to temptation, spread his fingers to follow the pleat in Alfred’s slacks. He pressed a palm to the warmth of his thigh, followed the lean muscle he found there.

Alfred exhaled, heard the hitch. “I don’t know much.” He wrapped Ivan’s sleeve around his fingers. “I’ve only ever been with Francis, so I know how it works, but not much else. I hope that’s okay.”

Ivan decided with absolutely certainty that there could be no god. He laid a knee inside Alfred’s own, pressed outward just enough to move him. He took Alfred’s head in his hand to keep him still. “Why not Francis, then?” 

Alfred felt boots between his feet. Ivan’s fingers were cold. “I asked him so I’d know for you.” 

Ivan chose his words carefully, placed them along the tender underside of Alfred’s bared throat. “You should have asked me.”

Alfred tried to laugh, but the sound was thin. “I wasn’t sure what you were into.”

Ivan spread his fingers over, under; and god save them both, Alfred opened his thighs to admit him. “What if I care nothing for your evening?”

Alfred dragged his nails uselessly over cool fabric. “I can take it.”

If the devil itself tore from the veil between worlds to overtake him, Ivan was certain that it, too, would lave its tongue over the vital pulse in Alfred’s throat, would revel in the taste of salt.

He murmured to dampened skin. “And what will you do if I slit your throat tonight?”

“Holy god.” Alfred pressed his fingers into black slacks, over solid muscle. Christ Jesus. God save him. “You’re drunker than I am.”

Ivan took Alfred’s lapel in his hand, straightened his collar, and pulled him bodily to his feet. “Perhaps my natural sense of ethics urges me against immoral action.”

Delighted—terrified—Alfred laid his hands on the muscle of Ivan’s shoulders, his chest, his middle. He cocked his head, wet his mouth, let his eyes fall over Ivan’s mouth, his arms. “I don’t think shades of gray apply in my apartment.”

Ivan curled both hands in Alfred’s belt. “Is that your decision, or the proclivity of mankind?”

“You know what, let’s just do this the easy way.” Alfred wrapped both hands in Ivan’s scarf. “I want you. You want me. Let’s do something about it.”


	3. Dante's Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Ivan partner to win a masquerade costume contest-- but not in the costumes the crowd might expect.

Paris, Alfred thought: a city of ethos and antiquity, and one of the rare places on Earth that felt like family. Below the window and the velvet black of the sky, the city glowed like a beacon: _here is Papa; here is home._

He’d left the lights low in deference to the holiday and the parade past the hotel. The glossy vanity mirror, hung in gold above the cooling fireplace, boasted in shades of shadow the room behind him: a porcelain mug that once held coffee, now cold and empty; a cape made of silk, black and crimson; and a black devil’s mask with empty eyes.

Gel warmed in his fingers, and he combed them through his hair, straightened from root to ends. He would have preferred to flatten the locks neatly to his head, he thought, but the coin had decided otherwise.

A thought struck him, and Alfred turned to reach for the suit jacket he’d slung over a desk chair while he waited. He dug into the pocket; he slipped a quarter into his slacks for later.

The rap of knuckles on the door.

Alfred thought of Edgar Allan Poe, recited to himself— _by these angels he hath sent thee, respite_ —as he opened the latch. “Right on time.”

Then: “Wow, look at you.”

An embroidered golden circlet caught the low light of Alfred’s suite to glitter. The box Ivan held under an arm revealed gilded embroidery on the underside of his cape where the heavy fabric just brushed the floor with a whisper. “Wow, man.”

Ivan pressed a hand to his heart. “You have makeup.”

Alfred stopped himself before he could smudge his face, sent his eyes over the circlet again. “Oh. Yeah. Mattie did it. He said it looks dark, fit the mood.”

Ivan glanced over himself, at the finery. “Is it too much?”

“No, no.” Alfred stepped aside, gestured him into the suite. “You look great, exactly what I’d expect. Where’s the crown?”

As he passed from the entryway, Ivan lifted the wider box and gave the lid a tap with a fingernail. “I have something for you, if you like.”

“Your mask is in there too, right?” Alfred latched the deadbolt. “I think we can win this thing.”

Ivan set his packages on the desk. “You will like what I have for you, then.” He glanced around the suite. “Is he here?”

“He went down stairs a while ago.” Alfred returned to the mirror to press fingers into his cheekbones, to inspect the dark liner around his eyes. “Is this bad? I can wash it off.”

“Keep it.” Ivan pulled a handful of swinging, sparkling gold jewelry from the case. Alfred could see something curved in the bottom of the box. “Your eyes are very bold. I like the rouge as well. You look both young and old.”

“Perfect. Exactly the point.” He hadn’t applied anything but eyeliner, Alfred thought; but boy, his face felt warm. “What’s in there?”

He tightened his tie in the mirror, slipped fingertips over silk. Behind him, Ivan spread a golden gorget between his fingers like the webbing of some celestial spider.  

He lifted the chain for examination. “Do you think?”

"Like a pallium? Go for it, dude.” Alfred eyed the expensive addition in the mirror. “Christ, is that all real?”

Ivan draped gold and jewels around his shoulders. “Do you like precious stones?”

“I don’t wear much jewelry.” Alfred paced around the desk for his tailcoat, held up the hand on which he wore two silver rings. “I like diamonds, though.”

Ivan gave him a quirked eyebrow. “Expensive.”

 “Get to know me, Braginski.” Alfred gave him a haughty look as he adjusted his collar, his gold cufflinks. “I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

“You are no more than an indulged farmhand. Over there, please.”

Alfred wandered back to the mirror, watched as Ivan reached for the gift he’d brought, lifted it delicately from the box with both hands.

“Holy god.” Alfred stilled, gold cufflinks forgotten. “What is that?”

Thoughtful, Ivan held the headdress over his head. He settled the mask over Alfred’s face, adjusted the angle with cold fingers. “I have never been asked to join a costume party, as a partner.”

Alfred reached out to follow the left horn’s ridged curl, counted gemstones beneath the pads of his fingers. He traced the demon’s pointed nose, the slanted socket for his own blue eyes.

The single socket was studded in tiny round sapphires. “This is incredible. Where did you get it?”

Ivan said quietly, “I made this for you.”

Alfred stared at him, and dripping rubies fell still. “You _made_ this thing? How?”

Ivan pulled from the second box a golden diadem inlaid with diamonds, and a mask with an amethyst trim. “It is my thanks.”

Alfred pressed the pads of his fingers into a tapered horn, unable to tear his eyes away from his reflection. “You made this for me?”

Ivan set the crown on his own head. “Let me see.”

They stood head to head, if Alfred wore the headdress, intimidating and magnificent, glittering in the low light. Porcelain black horns, studded with rubies and opal; diamonds trickled from the crown’s peak. Every movement sent shards of multicolored light over the walls, the mirror, the desk.

Alfred shook his head, and the room reflected the movement. “You outdid yourself. This is one hell of a gift, man, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“A present for you.” Ivan clapped his shoulder, gestured to the door. “But this is not my gift.”

Alfred hurried to follow, to lock the door behind them with one hand on the headdress to keep it in place. In the hall, he said, “I thought you said it was.”

They paced together down the stairs, toward the music of the grand ballroom where the party had already begun. As they neared the door, Ivan lifted a caped arm to hold the curtain open for him.

They entered, and the room stopped to stare.

Ivan wrapped an arm around his waist, murmured to him as Alfred waved his greetings to the crowd. “I intend to gift you the contest prize.” 

 


End file.
